


The Sunlight's Better Here

by tepidspongebath



Series: Concerning plants and sunlight [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dubious Consent, Light Bondage, Other, PWP, Tentacle Monster Plant Thing, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:04:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tepidspongebath/pseuds/tepidspongebath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/18842.html?thread=113515674#t113515674">this prompt on the Sherlock kink meme</a> asking for Sherlock creating a monster plant, said monster plant wilting despite his best efforts, said monster plant being given to John, and then said monster plant having its way with John Watson and feeling much better for it afterwards.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sunlight's Better Here

**Author's Note:**

> *drops this here*
> 
> *nudges it with toe*
> 
> *runs away and hides*

"Sherlock?"  
  
"Mmm?"  
  
"Your plant...your plant  _thing_. What the  _hell_  is it doing in my room?"  
  
"It's the only place in the flat I haven't tried yet. I didn't think you'd mind."  
  
"You didn't think I'd mind having a monster plant barely staying on the right side of the animal kingdom in my room. Right."  
  
"Do you?"  
  
"I think I do, actually. It  _moves_ , Sherlock. Plants don't bloody move. They shouldn't."  
  
"It's dying, John."  
  
"And that's supposed to make me, what, sympathetic?"  
  
"You're a doctor! You took an oath!"  
  
"For  _people_ , Sherlock, not plants."  
  
And then Sherlock contrived to look so hurt and disappointed that John whistled through his teeth and gave in. The consulting detective had been trying - and failing - to nurse the thing back to health for days now. He'd done pretty much everything a horticulturist could do in a small flat in Central London, but the plant was just short of being as wilted as month-old lettuce, even if it did still wriggle its leaves in a half-hearted, disconsolate manner. After all, John thought, it was just a plant. No harm ever came of looking after a plant.  


*

  
  
It was more than a little alarming to find out how very wrong he was. John Watson woke up later that night to find a number of vines - no, tentacles, really, they didn't feel quite properly plant-like - snaking over him from the small pot he'd perched on his bedside table. Their touch felt uncomfortably like a caress as they slid across his chest, over his left leg, up his neck, and, swearing roundly at the thing and at his flatmate, the doctor made to get away from the things.  
  
It didn't work. Their hold tightened when he tried to roll over, and tentacles ( _Christ,_  he thought,  _How many_ are _there?_ ) caught his wrists in a vise grip when he tried to pull them off. And when he opened his mouth to shout for help, one of them pushed itself between his lips and, with a flickering and lapping reminiscent of a particularly thorough kiss, began to secrete a sweet, sticky something. John had no choice but to swallow, and he did, gagging a little as the stuff was forced down his throat.   
  
Things got a little hazy and warm and butter-colored after that.  
  
John felt himself relaxing into the thing's touch ( _no, he wasn't bothered at all, not anymore_ ), shuddering in unrepressed pleasure as the tips of the tentacles - all very slightly moist and bendy, but firm nonetheless - teased him, playing with his nipples through the thin fabric of his shirt, tickling the sensitive skin behind his ears, and, yes, running up and down his cock through his cotton boxers. He would have moaned, given voice to what all that stimulation, all at once was doing to him, but the tentacle in his mouth was still there, pulsing and grinding, essentially fucking his oral cavity more thoroughly than had ever been done before ( _and John had experience, oh yes_ ).   
  
The thing pulled out of his mouth abruptly, trailing nectar down his chin, and John cried out at the loss. He licked his lips, trying to get all of the taste of it back ( _this is wrong, this has to be wrong...oh, fuck that),_ as it and the other tentacles turned him over. He was breathing heavily now, and half-hard, and the plant slid more appendages under his shirt, found his nipples, and pinched. John groaned at that, loud and, God help him, debauched, not caring in the slightest that his shirt was being hiked higher and higher up and over his head. He ground his cock needily into the tentacles still caressing it. He wasn't sure of exactly what it was he wanted, but whatever it was he wanted more and now _( _to get off with a_ plant _, sweet, merciful Lord no, or maybe, or_  yes)._

John was almost relieved, sighing gratefully into his pillow, when tentacles curled around the top of his pants and pulled them down and off. He groaned throatily as one of them wrapped around his erection, pulsing, tugging just short of too much. They curled around his thighs and pulled, spreading them wide, and he shouted, actually shouted, when feather-light touches began to probe his entrance. A few of them slipped inside, almost imperceptibly, and they hooked against the tight ring of muscle and pulled it open. As preparation went, it was uncomfortable ( _fuck, of course it was uncomfortable, he was about to be fucked by a fucking plant, where the fuck was fucking comfortable in that_ ), and John grunted in protest and tried to pull away.  
  
The only response to that was a tightening everywhere, even painfully around his prick and relentlessly around his anal sphicter, and one tentacle, thick and dripping and heavy, forcing itself into his mouth again.   
  
John found himself sucking on it, desperately, as more of the sticky-sweet-and-maybe-just-a-tad-bitter stuff seeped from it, more with every tug of his lips and hollowing of his cheeks.   
  
That was when a large - incredibly large - blunt something touched itself to his spread-open hole. John's hips bucked away on impulse, but the thing was persistent, following his movement. It pushed in unceremoniously, up deep inside him, and John braced himself, expecting it to hurt, but...it didn't. He felt something running down from it, an oily, viscous something dribbling between his legs, and the thing pulsed, once, twice, the movement traveling in a wave from the outside in, a peristaltic thickening and thinning of the appendage.   
  
It hit him in just the right spot. And it did it again. And again.  
  
John writhed, thrust, canted, squirmed as the thing proceeded to fuck him thoroughly, making the lewdest noises around the tentacle in his mouth and not caring one whit who heard him. It went on for longer than he thought possible, the plant taking him deeper and harder than anyone - or anything - else had from both ends, and the delicious pull-push friction around his cock.   
  
He came, hard, his load spurting out in thick streaks, and his orgasm lasted much longer than usual.   
  
John felt limp after that, though his lips still chased after the tentacle that had been in his mouth when it withdrew. The plant's grip on him loosened - the appendage around his cock let go completely - and it pulled out of him slickly, leaving him open and empty. He thought muzzily that he wanted more, but that it was possible that he couldn't take it, and his last thought before he drifted off into sleep was that he had no idea how he was going to explain this to Sherlock. He was barely aware of the ticklish, slightly fibrous tentacles twining around his cock and spreading over the soiled patches he'd left on the sheets.  
  
The bed was completely clean when he woke up, and perhaps the only evidence of the events of last night was a slight soreness in his nether regions. On the bedside table the plant was looking healthier than ever, almost obscenely so considering how ragged it had been before, its leaves pert and crisp and vibrantly green.  
  
Sherlock was pleased.   
  
"What did you do to it?" he asked, happily inspecting the thing, having pushed his way into the room just seconds after John had pulled his boxers on.  
  
John opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I have absolutely no idea." It was the truth. Or close enough.  
  
"Hmm." Sherlock fixed his flatmate with a piercing look, then turned away again, shrugging his shoulders beneath his dressing gown. "The sunlight must be better here."


End file.
